


S(oul)M(ate) 2

by Trixy_BuenaSuerte



Series: Random Ficlets Inspired by Daily Life. [3]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Angst, Destiny, F/M, Ficlet, Pining, Soulmates, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-08
Updated: 2017-06-08
Packaged: 2018-11-11 09:15:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11145438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trixy_BuenaSuerte/pseuds/Trixy_BuenaSuerte
Summary: Also Known as the One Where:Soul mates are a complicated mess and where it should be one, sometimes it turns out to be two. And you still get neither.





	S(oul)M(ate) 2

It starts with a tingle. A tightening of chest muscles and a chill that crawls down my spine. From skull to tailbone and back up again. An endless circuit that I know all too well. With an intimacy that doesn’t befit having only ever felt it once before.

Heart hammering, I note, with some detached part of my brain—the only part that still seems to be working (the only part that never seems to stop working, no matter the panic or shock or anger, that one part of my brain that houses that little voice in the back of my head) the cold, dark one that mocks everything I am and will ever be—whispers:

_‘It’s not as strong as the first time.’_

And it isn’t, it’s subdued enough to allow me to catalog it. To catalog him. To take him in and actually _see_ him. To take in his features and crave him into my mind. Making up for not doing it the first time. For being too stunned to do anything but stare that time.

_I don’t remember what my soulmate looked like._

That thought is a physical wound. A stab to the heart that will never heal because I _don’t_ remember. Can’t pull up even an idea of what _He_ might have look like. The moment had come and gone in a flash, taking any memory of _His_ face with it.

So I do it now.

I take in this new stranger and bringer of these subdued chills as discreetly as possible. Keep him in my sights without ever really looking at him. Not directly at least. Peripheral vision has never been as much of a blessing as it has now and I use it to my advantage as I drink him in.

He’s tall. More than a few heads taller than me and lean in a way that speaks of light muscles and almost no visits to the gym but hints at a fast metabolism or a healthy eating habit. His hair is short, black and curly. So much so that it looks more like a buzz cut than anything else. But the curls are there, tucked close and _just_ long enough to curl.

It’s the skin that bothers me. Light as my own, if not lighter, but something tells me he’s not Caucasian. His whole body language doesn’t go with the color of his skin. He seems almost thuggish and I can’t help but wonder if I’m projecting.

_Big Brother always said I had a thing for black guys._

He's biracial, at least. He has to be with the dark hair but light skin. Not Asian, though. Maybe Mexican or African-American but definitely not fully Caucasian.

_He’s not hot, though._

Attractive, yes but not hot enough to swoon over. Yet I can’t look away. Can’t pull my gaze away from him for longer than few seconds but I do it. Drag my eyes back to the front and focus on my work with everything I have. Eyes on my paper, I tune it all out.

The voices, the music, the sounds of air rushing to fill lungs, and the hammering of my own heart. I let it all bleed away until all that’s left is the sound of charcoal scratching across paper. The minutes tick by, unnoticed and I forget.

Forget the time, the day, and the guy in the corner without the faintest clue as to how he’s clawed his way into my life without a word.

And it’s all because of that tingle. That annoying sensation that won’t quit. That won’t stop it’s torment even as I give it what it wants. As the professor calls for a break, I return to my discreet admiring.

“Alright everyone, take a break. Get up, stretch, get something to eat. We’ll meet back up in half an hour.”

The majority of the class disperses at those words. They race towards the door and are gone in the flash of an eye. I linger behind, eyes roaming over my sketch pad and taking it in as a whole.

“You’re getting better,” a girl, whose name I can’t remember to save my life, says. She sits next to me and I peer at her sketch pad and return her words. “Come, let’s go eat.”

_“You go ahead, I’m going to grab my sketch book.”_

She goes without another word, taking her backpack with her as I devil into mine. Pulling my phone and wallet out, I leave it abandoned on my drawing horse. There’s nothing else of great importance in it, so I don’t fret over it as I make my way to the front of the class.

Shuffling through the pile of twenty or more sketch books on the table, I search for mine.

“Can we take them already? I kind of want mine back.”

His voice is deep, soothing but my heart still races at the sound of it. I recognize it instantly and it sends my heart racing after I’ve finally calmed it down. Forcing a nonchalant behavior I answer.

_“I don’t know but I’m taking mines.”_

Locating my sketch book, I ease my way out of the classroom just as another person speaks. It draws his attention as I make my escape before something foolish can worm it’s way out of my mouth.

The day is a dark, gloomy gray and I revel in it as I make my way to the girl who I can’t name. Woman, actually. She’s old. At least well into her late twenties. Maybe early thirty, but she’s funny and energetic and we spend the break laughing over a shared sandwich.

_She seems to have taken to feeding me after I let it slip that I don’t eat much._

We sit there, crowded together until the cold gets to be too much and I retreat back inside the classroom. We seem to make it back at the right moment as class starts up again a few minutes later.

Forcing myself to ignore it all again, I concentrate on the paper in front of me, the charcoal in my hand, and the naked male model posing with his front to me.

_The cold is shrinking his penis._

The poor thing, having come in at a decent in size, is now no more than a bump. Hiding from the cold I’m sure the poor model feels as he stands naked before the whole class.

“Alright everyone. Go ahead and stand up and looks at each other’s work.”

Rising to my feet at the professor’s behest, I tour the classroom. Walk around the circle of drawing horses, unaware of anything but not tripping over backpacks haphazardly tosses on the floor.

“That one’s nice.”

His voice is still deep, still soothing and, once again, my heart takes off at the sound of it and my eyes go wide. They snap up to find him in front me, relax and casual as he points at the sketch pad on one of the horses. I admire it briefly, realizing he has a point.

The lines are crisp, clean even while drawn in charcoal. A skill I’ve yet to learn. The figures are dead on, smooth, flowing. They have none of the stiffness that usually comes from inscribing a view on to paper. The man on the page looks _alive._

 _“Yeah,”_ I agree as we walk on. This close, I force my eyes off him. Keep them glued on every sketch pad that I pass lest he find me looking. The embarrassment of being caught blatantly eye-fucking a complete stranger is enough to keep my eyes respectfully away from where they want to stray.

_It’s a nice sight._

Broad shoulders, thin waist, long legs. He doesn’t walk though. He…struts, walks with swaying hips in a way that makes me second guest his sexuality.

_It’d be a real bummer if he’s gay._

That thought doesn’t linger in my head as long as it probably should. It’s a very real thing to consider before I do something ridiculous like hit on the poor guy. Still the thought is gone as soon as it came. Instead, my mind is occupied with the next sketch pad to enter my field of vision.

_“Now that one’s the best one.”_

The words are out of my mouth before I can think better on them and he turns, attention easily drawn with a hum on his lips. Confused, his eyes roam over the sketch pad for a few moments before a startle laugh escapes him.

It’s a soothing as his voice, deep and heavy and it warms me deep down inside to hear it. To know I was the cause of it.

“Yes. It’s amazing,” he says around his laughter as he pauses to admire the sketch pad though there’s no point to it.

The paper’s blank.

“It’s abstract,” the Professors comments. Attention drawn by his laughter, she peers curiously at the paper, smile on her lips. “It’s white on white on white. The best, really.”

He chuckles quietly as he continues on, me trailing casually behind him. We walk in silence, only the random comment from one of us cutting in every now and again. It’s peaceful, nice even but as we come full circle and he takes a seat, I trudge on to my own.

Ending the moment. 

But it's enough. 


End file.
